And the huge roaches were there, all right! Suddenly, the surface of the garbage was alive with them. No rats, Homer noticed. The rodents had apparently been eaten or driven out—just as the woods, come to think of it, now showed no sign of the island’s deer and other animals. He must remember to tell that to the Harvard professors.

Homer set up his metal can, preparing the cover for a quick closing. The son of a bitch roach giants were facing him as if daring him to approach. Their odor, mixed with the reek of the dump, was choking him. He had come away too fast to remember the nose mask he usually wore at work. Before the man’s startled and dread-­filled eyes, the roach population began to merge into a single shape. The carapaces, looking like a fused metal shield in the graying afternoon, seemed to form one huge surface, like a broad exo-­skeleton of a single organism. The form flowed into a wide circle, and Homer could not help thinking that it was like a drilling band on a football field at halftime, especially when—as if at a baton signal—lines of roaches began to radiate out from the central body. No majorettes now, Homer thought with a shudder. These were tentacles of death coming after him.

The roach-­creature seemed exactly like an octopus now. From its thick core, a dozen “tentacles” were dipping and soughing over the tin cans, broken bottles, raw refuse. They were reaching for him, moving menacingly over the heap. Russell Homer realized with a jolt of new terror that the creature had an intention as purposeful as if it contained the “brain” the scientists had described. It was as if he could read its “mind”—it “planned” to back him to the sea where he could no longer escape, and then it would wind its suffocating “arms” around his throat and choke him to death. It would break his ribs, suck his blood just as an octopus would. And, according to the scientists, the roach teeth would even grind up his bones, leaving no evidence . . .

Russell Homer sprang for his shovel. In seconds, he had his can half-­filled with garbage containing scores of the great roaches. He clamped the cover over the mess, and stood alertly searching for an escape route.

The “octopus” began to move at him faster. The young man swallowed with bitterness and fresh terror. Was he really trapped? He realized that, much as he didn’t want to die, and certainly not this way, his deeper pain was that he would be letting his friends down. Yarkie had been good to him when he needed help. This would have been one way to repay. But with his usual bungling, he had not prepared well enough in advance, had not planned against the contingencies. Damn the storm. Damn the boat for not having stronger engines. Damn the—